


Entirely Inappropriate

by Path



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Second Person, Power Bottom Cala, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly everything about Cala Athmaza offends Deret Beshelar, but when the maza suggests they get to know each other on more intimate terms, he finds he cannot resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once a Homestuck, always stuck in 2nd Person, as they say. I hope the change in tense doesn't mess with the Goblin Emperor atmosphere too much, but it was fun to write in the head of super judgmental Beshelar. Let us all hope he learns a valuable lesson about judging people too fast and also a valuable lesson about doing whatever Cala tells him to...

Cala Athmaza shows up on time, which to you is already late. Your sergeants drilled you for years on respectful timing, and you do not find your partner’s carelessness appropriate to his station. Neither do you find his wardrobe appropriate; but then, what do you expect from a maza? Only few you’ve ever met have paid even scant attention to their appearances, and Cala is no exception. His robes are faded, showing signs of wear at the elbows and knees… they’re even a little wide at the cuffs, as if made for someone with less bony wrists. As a man who believes fervently in the importance of a perfect fit, you find it offensive to the eyes.

You find _so much_ about Cala Athmaza offensive, it is a wonder you can spend nearly every waking hour beside him. It is a tribute to the honour that is serving His Imperial Serenity as his First and closest that you are able to keep a lid on your near-constant disapproval. Cala’s behavior and appearance and general... everything… are utterly ill-mannered, but so too would be voicing that and expressing disapproval of His Serenity’s choice in nohecharai. Besides, you are sure there were few better options at the Athmaz’are. The irony in the thought is enough to make you scowl.

Cala straightens from the short bow he gives you on approaching, blinking nearsightedly at your grimace. “And a good evening to you,” he says with a faint smile, leaving out both your title _and_ your name as if to intentionally disrespect you. _He requires spectacles with a proper prescription_ , you think. _Perhaps they might help him see what an ass he makes of himself._

“We-” You cut yourself off before you say it out loud and settle for a severe, “…wish you a good evening. Athmaza.”

Cala blinks again, owlishly, and his smile quirks to one side. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?” he asks. He peers down at you, still smiling, and closes the distance between you. He is inappropriately close, a typical disregard for propriety and personal space. For some reason, it hits you worse than the rest of his little offenses, perhaps too close to a direct attack. His eyes drift lazily down you and back up again, and he picks at an imaginary bit of lint on your collar, flaring his fingers as if to flick it away. You know this uniform is immaculate, having brushed it yourself this afternoon, and you bristle at the insult. You can feel the heat of your anger burning low in your stomach, and it makes your limbs feel weak and fuzzy.

“If so, you are looking good all the same,” Cala murmurs, his voice cast low. “We must wonder who you will be taking home in the morn, dressed up as you are.” His fingers stay on your collar, caressing the braid trim, and you realize with horror that while you are indeed angry with Cala Athmaza, that is not the sole sensation he is evoking in you. You are hideously, distressingly _attracted_ to the man. His flagrant disrespect is _doing something_ to you; the burning in your stomach curls rather lower at the realization.

You have no idea what to say, and you cough out something negative while trying to regulate your thoughts and heartbeat. You would take a hasty step back if you weren’t already waiting with your back to the wall. As it is, you feel penned, trapped by this comically scrawny man and his total disregard for everything you hold dear. Your breath is similarly trapped. He must realize what he is doing to you… whatever it is he is doing to you. He is… he is _flirting_ with you, of all things. _Why?_

To disconcert you further, Cala’s hand on your collar trails down a little, long fingers pressed against your chest. If you had Cala’s build, you would be pressed into the wall. He leans in as you brace yourself, inclining his face next to yours. “We are certainly free at that time, if you have no-one else in mind,” he says, insidiously gentle and almost inaudible, lips nearly touching your ear.

Your entire body wakes at his words, at his closeness, at his _audacity_. Heat flares through you, a wanting so sudden and unexpected that it takes you entirely by surprise. You have never considered mazei to be good with words, but his bring images to your mind as if conjured there; Cala’s mouth hot on yours, his body pressed into you, Cala on his knees before you, Cala riding you above, panting and disarrayed. You straighten abruptly as desire courses through you, over your scalp and down your thighs. You are hard almost immediately; your entire body wants nothing more than to grab Cala and slam him into the wall, to shut him up with furious kisses and to feel him responding as he has made you. It is so utterly inappropriate that you cannot say a thing. He has left you shocked to breathlessness as surely as if he had dropped to his knees and unlaced your trousers here in the corridor.

There is a rustling sound, and it takes your brain a moment to figure it out, a tribute to how distracted you have been, for it’s a sound you hear every day, His Imperial Serenity and his secretary, leaving his room to come to dinner. You actually panic for a moment, but Cala steps away and to his post on the other side of the door, _thank the gods_ , and you have a second or two to hastily rearrange yourself and try to look professional.

Lieutenant Telimezh comes through first, nodding to you and Cala and giving you a small frown of concern. Something must be wrong in your posture or your positioning or your face; Telimezh is well-trained, if somewhat indecisive, and he knows your standards. But he (very correctly) says nothing, and moves on, followed by His Serenity and Mer Aisava, deep in conversation. Kiru Athmaza is last, and even more distressingly, gives you an appraising look and an amused smile and a blatant glance at Cala, who smiles in his bland way and gives her a pleasant, “Good eve, Kiru.”

You fall into place and follow after her to change shifts, deeply disturbed by how transparent you must be and vowing not to let Cala’s baiting interfere with your work. To your continued horror, as you take Telimezh’s place, His Serenity looks up from his conversation, frowning. “Are you well, Lieutenant?” he asks, in his frustratingly deferential way.

You have to clear your throat before you find words, and you cannot look at Cala, for surely he is laughing at your distress. “Hmph. Well enough, Serenity,” you manage gruffly. Your Emperor nods, eyeing you searchingly as if to find some secret in your flushed face, but he returns to Mer Aisava’s question and ignores you as is proper, and you have some time to try to get yourself back together. Kiru and Telimezh leave shortly after, though Kiru clearly cannot resist giving you another sidelong smirk, and a raised eyebrow to Cala. What will she say to Telimezh, now that they are off-duty? _Cleric or no_ , you think, _she is nearly as improprietous as Cala himself._

As if hearing even your thoughts about him, Cala smiles.

= = =

The evening is, for lack of a better word, _difficult._

Every time you conference with Cala or so much as glance at him, you have another image rise to the surface of your mind- pinning his thin wrists together, his body sprawled beneath you, tangling a fist in his messy braid. You cannot stop thinking of _fucking _Cala, of how his pale eyes (one of his better features) would look glazed in desire, of the line of his spine below you. It is a devastating blow to know you are so easily disarmed, and throughout the court’s dinner, opera, and dancing, you continually upbraid yourself in the manner of your most vicious of sergeants back when you were but a soldier.__

__Worse still, you are sure Cala knows it, for the few words he exchanges are laced with innuendo and outright suggestion, designed to remind you of your earlier brush with disaster. His smile grates on you, transparently knowing and smug as it is. Finally, as His Imperial Serenity returns to the Alcethmeret to be dressed for bed by his edocharei and you and Cala have a moment of pseudo-privacy, you turn on him. “Will you not cease this taunting?” you demand as quietly as you can muster. “Allow us to do our work in peace, maza. We do not see what this… this distraction gains you.”_ _

__Cala, to what you suppose is his credit, blinks in confusion, pale brows drawn together. “Oh,” he says. “We did not realize you were not interested. Our apologies, Lieutenant. We thought… well, we thought it was _mutual_.”_ _

__This is the worst thing of all. You could accept Cala’s baiting and his… well, not his enmity, exactly, but you could accept this as a questionable form of hazing. The knowledge that he is serious is the last blow in a series of devastating hits. You flounder, speechless._ _

__He seems to recognize this, and peers at you shrewdly through his thick spectacles. “Unless it might be, and you merely wish to divide work and pleasure?” he asks. He takes a step toward you, and you are hard-pressed not to retreat. You stand your ground, bracing as Cala closes the gap. He actually passes by you, circling your back; you feel exposed and extremely vulnerable, unable to see him or predict his whims. His hand traces the line of your shoulders, drifting across your back, and you shudder stiffly to attention. “If that might be the case, then, we suppose that is not too much to ask. Perhaps we can reevaluate our positions after we conclude our duties?”_ _

__Then his voice is in your ear again and you are conscious of Cala pressed against your back. “If you are amenable, that is. We should like _very much_ to explore our options.” You have no idea why his words, so ostensibly formal, should grate across your body as if he was saying the most lewd and explicit things; perhaps it is the vagary of it.__

But Cala leaves you alone, after that, though for the short time until the Emperor sleeps, you have to force yourself not to watch him, to examine his expression and imagine the frame of his body under his layered robes. Where you are usually attentive and watchful, tonight all you can think of is what Cala’s skin must feel like, cool and smooth under your hands. You think of running them up his back, down his chest, of how his skinny frame would feel in… closer quarters. You are a disaster. You are falling apart. You are seized with the desire to escape, to confess to the Emperor that you are sick and Telimezh must take your place for the night, but to lie to His Serenity would be such a grievous breach of your oaths that you cannot even dream of it for long without vehemently upbraiding yourself for it. 

__You suffer in silence._ _

__At least once the Emperor sleeps, you and Cala are separated; you go to eat while he keeps watch, and you have no idea what you eat or how long you take doing it. Then, spelling Cala in turn, there are long hours of silence and contemplation, broken only by His Serenity’s soft breathing and the trill of a nightjar in the darkness. You still yourself as best as you can, but an evening spent aroused and self-conscious is not easily dismissed, and you are shamefully sure that, even if Cala’s offer was insincere, you will not be able to stop yourself once you get home. You desperately want to take the skinny maza with you, you want to do all the things he has been pushing you to, but you will settle for imagining it and closing your hand around yourself if you have to. You have been starving yourself a long time, and he must have realized that long before you did. Even the thought of your hand gripping your cock, the thought of coming hard to visions of Cala’s mouth eagerly taking you, is enough to break your concentration now. Your hands tighten on the windowsill. You just need to protect the Emperor, make it through the night, and not disgrace yourself._ _

__Your standards have lowered shockingly. But perfection is beyond you now. You just need to make it through the night._ _

__And, perhaps most shocking of all, you do- interaction with your partner is rare for the rest of the night and he does not have much opportunity to bait you further. It seems the night stretches on unbearably until dawn arrives unexpected and quick. Then all at once you are following your Emperor into the corridor and down to breakfast, accompanied by Telimezh and Kiru, who greet you with some distress and some amusement, respectively. Your shift must have worn on you visibly._ _

__The last few minutes pass rather quickly, and you trust you have not embarrassed yourself or His Serenity too much, though he does give you a look of concern and tells you to get some rest. You would be more torn up about this, except that you are now free. Free to rush home, come quickly, collapse into sleep, and forget tonight and infuriating Cala Athmaza. Of course, your quarters are nearly side-by-side, and you walk together, though by now the drain of your shift has silenced you both. Cala does not need to hurry to keep up with you with his long legs._ _

__Your door is first, and you fling it open and nearly disappear within but for Cala’s hand on the frame. You freeze, just inside your door. He peers in at you, clearly trying to read your expression in the dark of your hall. “Lieutenant?” he says, and then softer, “Beshelar?” Your name hangs in the air between you a long moment._ _

__“For the gods’ sake,” you say, “come in and close the door.”_ _


	2. Chapter 2

He is in and against you without another word, and you fair fall upon each other in desperation. His mouth is hot and quick on yours, kisses and soft bites on your lower lip that draw an unintentional growl from you. Now you do push him into the wall, as you might have earlier this evening had you a shred less willpower. He gasps as you pin him there; there isn’t enough light to truly see by and you wish you’d had some forethought to light the lamp, but you couldn’t have known you’d have Cala Athmaza here and that you’d want so badly to see his face. You lose yourself in him for awhile, urgently and haphazardly kissing at his mouth and neck … it doesn’t matter where, for Cala’s sounds are delicious wherever you touch. You mouth at the lobe of his ear, pulling at one ring with your teeth. Cala moans rewardingly.

After a completely indeterminate amount of time you break apart, both short of breath and gasping. “Can’t we-” Cala begins.

You cut him off, grabbing his arm and pulling him into your rooms. “This way,” you say, and your voice no longer sounds like your own.

You’re glad for a whole new reason that you keep your small apartment in military cleanliness. Despite how shaky you are, you don’t knock anything over finding the tapers and lighting the gas lamp. Cala waits in the center of your spartan quarters as the light comes up. “Surely someone actually lives here,” he says teasingly, but there is no venom in his voice.

“We are sure we would be waiting a sight longer for you to find a match in your chambers,” you say, still a little stung, and Cala grins. You had thought to light the lamp in your room, too, but the light coming in the door must suffice, for Cala will not wait any longer. As soon as you lead the way into your room he pulls you to him once more. His hands can’t stay still on you now; in the hallway he had clasped them to your arms as if to ensure you would not change your mind, but now they are clasping at your back, they are raking your sides and hips, they slide up your chest, tracing the lines of muscle. His mouth is incredible on yours, hot and fast and desperate. Every scrap of desire he evoked in you tonight pushes to the surface in you, decorum and preference hastily shoved aside.

Then his thin fingers dart down to caress the bulge in your trousers, and you cannot suppress the sound it pulls from you. You moan low into Cala’s mouth, and he makes an appreciative noise in turn, mouth leaving yours to caress your ear. “So hard,” he murmurs, voice shivering over your skin. “Thou must have gone hungry a long time.” His hand presses against your length, stroking slowly with his words. “Or perhaps thou hast desired me for longer than I believed?”

“Do not…” Words come to you with difficulty. Your cock is straining against your trousers into Cala’s hand. “Do not flatter yourself, maza.”

He laughs in your ear, low and delighted, and you feel the shock of his tongue delve briefly into it. Your hips buck involuntarily. “I hardly need to,” he says, and you realize he has you pressed into the wall. You remember barely a step since you entered the room. “Thy body’s responses are flattery enough.” 

Then he drops to his knees, exactly as you had pictured earlier, swiftly working at your belt and buttons. His braid is half-undone already and his collar is threadbare; you try to focus on the details, for he has severely unbalanced you and you need to pull yourself together. _This is not what they warned you of,_ you think bitterly, _when they told you not to be seduced from your duties._ Surely your instructors imagined some traitorous temptress when they schooled you in integrity, and not an artless maza who can hardly recall where he left his spectacles. But Cala finds all the small places you break, you think, and if he exploits them ruthlessly, it is so far for nothing but pleasure. _Mutual,_ you recall.

Your frustrated thoughts are banished entirely by Cala’s tongue on you, having gotten your trousers and drawers down deftly in one practiced motion. He covers the tip with hot, slick swipes, and you let out a shuddering groan and lean back into the wall. Your cock was already throbbing, tip wet with clear early seed, and Cala’s tongue and lips over it are exquisite. When you glance down, he is taking the head in, and looking up at you over smudged spectacles. It is like a punch in the chest, seeing your partner, your fellow nohecharai, on his knees with your cock in his mouth. 

“Gods,” you breathe, and Cala smirks before beginning to move on you. You sink into his mouth, the heat and wetness flooding slowly up your shaft. He cannot take the whole thing; you bump the back of his throat before that, and he backs off again, tongue dragging against the underside of your cock the entire way.

“Had not expected thee to be quite so large,” he says, freeing his mouth from you. It is wet and open as he breathes. “A little unnerving, if I may be honest.” He punctuates by taking you in again, long and slow, in and out. His conversational tone offends you somehow, as if there is a rule about silence he is breaking that you are only half-aware of. You have never had a partner who… who _chatted_ with you. 

“Unnerving,” you say, and with some effort it comes out merely slow, not stuttered. It is all you can do not to whine at his touch.

“Knowing this will be sunk in me later,” Cala says, unbelievably casually to your ears. The idea shocks you worse than his words and worse even than his mouth, plunging over your length again. You had thought of- you had _thought_ of fucking him, but you hadn’t-

His long fingers have wrapped around the base of your cock to deliver small strokes while his mouth works. You are rocking your hips into him and you are not sure when you began. He reaches for your hand- belatedly you realize you have both hands plastered against the wall as if to stabilize you there- and guides it to his head. You push your fingers through the pale hair his queue does nothing to secure, and cannot stop your fingers from clenching into a fist in it. You pull him towards you, and his mouth sinks smoothly over your cock; he hums along it in pleasure, leaving a delicious buzzing feeling dragging along your length. You are entranced, and Cala keeps looking up to meet your eyes. You feel it is wrong in an inexplicable way, like his conversation- shouldn’t one of you have your eyes closed? It sits in you like a coal aflame. 

You fuck his mouth, driving yourself in. Cala takes a little more as he proceeds, but he doesn’t cough or choke when you push him a little further. The idea that he is used to this, that Cala Athmaza is practiced and familiar with a thick cock hitting his throat, is horribly unavoidable to you. His mouth is so good on you, and Cala so impudent and outrageous… you breathe hard, forcing back the orgasm that nearly claims you. You had almost lost yourself to it, and not even seen it approaching.

Cala must feel your struggle not to finish, for he extricates your hand from his hair, brushing the mess back carelessly. “Didst wish to come, full clothed and standing?” he asks, amused and smiling. His lips are wet, red, lewd.

You do not justify it with a reply, but scramble to undo enough buttons to get your jacket and shirt over your head. Cala shucks out of his robe, and then out of the thin tunic and soft leggings below. All are worn nearly to grey, and he leaves them in a nondescript pile. When you are finally divested of boots, belts, and clothes, Cala is sitting on the edge of your bed, pale and naked and watching you hungrily, eyes shifting over you as if memorizing your details. He seems to lose himself for a moment, and when he calls himself back, he extends a hand to you and pulls you down to him. 

You are utterly naked and pressed together, face-to-face. You can feel how his breathing hitches, now; he may be familiar with the motions, but Cala is still… awed? Nervous?

“Wilt touch me, Deret?” he asks, and your given name comes out very soft. You want nothing more.

You prop yourself on your elbow beside him. Your length is strainingly hard, pressing into his hip, but you run your hand down his body, and you take your time. His ribs and hipbones are so prominent; you find yourself returning to them to trace them with calloused fingers. When your hand sweeps up to his jaw, he catches two of your fingers in his mouth, sucking them briefly in the same motions he had used on your cock; you rock against his hip involuntarily. The gesture is so _vulgar_.

You take your wet fingers straight from his mouth to his cock. Cala writhes with the sudden touch of your fingers slick against him, and the way he moans under his breath stabs into you savagely. Your hands are not gentle; you do not have Cala’s thin and dextrous fingers, and you are more used to training with spear and sword than delicate tasks with pen or needle. But Cala responds to it, to the harsh, efficient way you are used to treating yourself. He tilts his head to yours, hair falling unbound, and his hitched breathing is intimately close to your ear. You can hear every reaction. You swipe your thumb over his tip, and he bucks into it and moans. 

“Again,” he breathes, and his words clench in your chest. “Thou’rt so…” He shudders, and you feel his length swell in your hand. “…Ruthless with me. Keep to it.” You kiss him before he can say more and disconcert you further, and then you forget anything but his mouth on yours, his cock in your hand. If you had a rhythm to it before, it vanishes in a flurry of urgent, wet kisses. You pump him, fast and strong, and he is hard as a spear in your hand.

Finally, Cala breaks your mouths apart, and tilts his forehead against yours. You can recognize the struggle to seize control; you have had to do it enough this evening that it is easy to identify. His thin chest is heaving, and he is panting audibly. “Wilt cover me, Beshelar? Or wilt drag me to finish now?” His lips quirk; clearly he would not mind either outcome. But the idea of being _inside_ Cala is so completely irresistible to you that you slow your hand on him. He swallows and makes an effort to retake some composure.

“What...” you fear to humiliate yourself, especially to this man, but error would be worse than ignorance, so you grind the words out. “What must I do?” 

Cala breathes, and a very small smile blossoms on his face. “Only listen and watch,” he says, ignoring your intense embarrassment, “and do as I say, and it will be very good for us both.” He nods to his pile of discarded clothing; which you have ended up closer to. “There is a jar in one of my pockets, there, wouldst hand it to me?”

Later, perhaps, you will consider the sheer size of Cala’s pockets and the amount of odd pebbles, feathers, coins, and other such magpie trinkets he seems to collect in them, but you find the jar without spilling too much of his collection. He twists the lid off, and a warm scent washes out, heady and hard to ignore. You watch, entranced, as Cala dips his fingers into the oil and begins to touch himself, spreading his long legs and reaching between them. 

“You… keep this on you,” you ask, and cannot frame the words in any more respectful way.

Cala slides a finger up into himself, apparently easily and painlessly. His other hand clasps his shaft, though he doesn’t stroke it. “When I’ve reason to,” he replies, and at least his voice is a little breathless; you watch him, the word _debuchery_ hanging heavy in your head. His finger is slowly scissoring in and out.

“Reason,” you say, unable to take your eyes off him.

Cala flashes a smile, which vanishes as quickly as it came. He is adding a second finger, and still it seems as though he takes it easily, a feat you have never considered or thought you would assign value to. His lips part, and his eyes are on you in turn. “Is’t not reason enough?” he asks. “Now, come close, for wilt need to be oiled, thyself.”

Later, perhaps, you will consider a Cala who keeps such a tool on him at all times. It is bizarrely incongruous with the Cala you had thought you knew. For now, you find yourself kneeling between Cala’s legs. “Bend to kiss me,” he says, and now there is a hitch of desire in his voice. If something in you revolts at taking orders from Cala Athmaza, you are becoming adept at quashing it. You suspend yourself over him, propping yourself on one hand beside his head, and kiss him deeply. 

You can feel his hand, oil-soaked and slick, caress you, and your cock aches with his touch. His is so close, too- you can feel the heat of him against your thighs. His fingers are just long enough to pin your shafts together, and the feeling of him wetly rutting against you forces a moan out of you, from something coiled deep in your chest. You cannot stop yourself from doing the same, jerking into Cala’s cock and fingers. 

“I’m ready,” he says, soft and breathless, and you make yourself stop, though it takes all the willpower you can muster. Cala’s eyes drift down between you, to your length- it is bigger than his by a significant amount, and certainly bigger than Cala’s twined fingers. “Or,” he amends, “as ready as I shall be, for that. Be slow, Beshelar, and stop when I say.”

You take your slick cock in hand, resisting the urge to stroke it, for you don’t think you have much time left, and press the tip to Cala’s hole. You can feel him give way to you, a tight ring pressing around your head. You want more of it, desperately, but you clamp down on the thing inside your chest and force yourself to move slowly and steadily.

You press the head in, Cala clenching around you, when his voice tumbles out uncontrolled. “Wait, wait, please,” he begs, and then makes a strangled sound that worries you for a moment. He lets his head fall back, spectacles askew, and breathes heavily. “We just… I only… must wait a moment,” he manages. “Thou’rt so thick, Beshelar, and I’ve not taken this…” he breathes again. His chest heaves in the dim light from the hallway. You want to be buried in him, and take him to pieces as surely as he has taken you. “…this girth before,” he finishes.

You watch the tension slowly ease from him, Cala’s sharp shoulders lowering before he nods, beckoning to you. He takes his own cock in hand again as you begin to press yours further into him, and he gives it long, slow strokes that you are hungry to match. But you force yourself to patience, and feel his body slowly give, taking more and then more again. His eyes dart down between you again. You’re halfway to the hilt and he gives a wild little laugh- “Augh, and _still_ so much?”- that severely tests your ability to control yourself. But he nods again, and then, as if he remembers you are green, “Aye, keep to ‘t. Thou’rt doing well, Deret.”

“Are you patronizing me?” you ask. It is almost a joke.

Cala’s smile comes out crooked. “Art still so formal?” he counters breathlessly. You give a muted laugh. Military formality was drilled into you; it is so rare and strange to be close enough to someone to change how you address them that you had all but forgotten to do it.

“I… thou wilt have to be patient with me,” you say, forcing an apology, and it is as hard to address Cala informally as it is to address him at all, face-to-face and… copulating. “I haven’t thy… familiarity, with this.” It comes out harsher than you’d intended, but Cala smiles sharply. His features seem unusually defined, more pointed somehow, apparent whenever you push a little more and he writhes beneath you. 

“I will teach thee, if that’s what thou wish for,” he says, voice low and briefly serious. “There’s much thou might yet enjoy, that we’ll not the time for, today.” He forces himself to still, regarding you carefully.

You inch into him further. “Aye,” you manage, and your voice twists. The idea of Cala here between shifts, guiding and instructing your lovemaking, is at once so humiliating and so utterly desirable that you feel it will crack you open. “I should… I should like to have thee here.”

Cala mirrors your words back. “Have me,” he says, words twisted, but permission explicit. You will hear it in dreams, twined with the memory of Cala spread below you. You are sure you will never forget it.

You jerk your hips forward- you were nearly fully sheathed in him anyhow, and the remaining gap is not too much. Your hips hit Cala’s and he makes a truly incredible sound, half moan and half bubbling cry, and again and again as you begin to hammer against him. You wrap a hand around each of his thighs and lever yourself with them, pulling him into you with each thrust. He is so _tight_ around you, hot and slick and clamping around your cock. You are only grateful that Cala is speechless (for once in his life) beneath you, for you are not sure you could stop yourself now if he gave the word.

Cala is not truly speechless, of course. But his words are broken and fumbling out of him, half-voiced cries- curses, begging, encouragement. His head is fully thrown back and the line of his neck is white in the half-darkness. You can feel how tense he is in his legs, shaking despite your grip. You do not know how you ever saw Cala in any other light; he is perhaps not beautiful, still, but you want him so badly that you could not say. His free hand clenches in his hair, and then he is coming, his almost-words transforming into a long high cry as he finishes. You groan, half in appreciation and half from the pressure of his body squeezing around you. 

Cala’s keening cry trails off slowly, edging lower into soft moans. You pound into him as he starts to come down, hips slamming against his, and finally you let the pressure in you build to a head and boil over. You can feel it overtake you, inevitable, consuming the last thoughts left in you and leaving nothing behind but a brutal pleasure. You come like you’ve run full-tilt into a stone wall.

You are sure, when you think on it later, that Cala must have come enough to his senses to help you extract yourself and fall into your bed, but you remember so little of it you may as well have been unconscious before you hit the sheets. Your limbs are still trembling when you come to.

Cala is around and against you, spooned against your back with a long arm thrown around your chest. His elbow pokes into your arm and he is snoring gently; you feel a flash of aggravation, but even you cannot keep it going. You try a few different ways to avoid his bony elbow, and finally give up. It is hardly the end of the world.

You think absently, unconnected to anything, that your sheets are sticky with oil and sweat and need changing. You think that if you are not careful, you will sleep straight through your shift, and Cala will not come to fetch you (as embarrassing as that would be), because he will be here sleeping as well. And you think of his offer, and wonder what else he might still have to instruct you in.

But you say none of it, because it is all entirely inappropriate, and besides, Cala will not hear it. Instead, you merely press closer to him, to your… your partner, and vow to yourself that you will drag both of you to the Emperor’s service on time, before you, too, fall at last into sleep.


End file.
